gunshots and dead men
by Someone aka Me
Summary: WWIII!AU. When Sherlock is drafted, John is furious. But in the end, there isn't much he can do, so he goes with. Because Sherlock is Sherlock, and John will protect him any way possible.


WWIII!AU

For Izzie and her muse, From Harry and Clara.

Also for GGE 2013, because I suck.

Warning for lots of John getting pissed off and swearing.

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"_How many wars will it take us to learn that only the dead return?" -Andrea Gibson._

_._

_gunshots and dead men_

_._

The name on the envelope and the all-too-familiar emblem in the corner combine to make John's blood run cold.

He sinks to the floor of the kitchen in their flat, staring at the unopened envelope and feeling the chill settle into his bones.

.

Sherlock finds him there, hours later, questions sprawled across the planes of his face. Questions that John doesn't know how to answer because- no. This isn't happening. John won't let it.

He grabs his coat and leaves without explaining, gets into a taxi and tells it to drive off before Sherlock can follow.

If John looks him in the eyes, he's afraid he might shatter.

.

He goes to Mycroft.

He tosses the letter down on the desk in front of him, loathing the expression on Mycroft's face as he looks calmly up at John.

"Fix it," John says.

Mycroft looks down at his hands. "I cannot, John."

"You're the goddamned British Government and you can't stop them from enlisting one man?"

Mycroft looks up, speaks calmly and too slowly when John wants him to rage. "I can stop them from enlisting one man. I cannot stop them from enlisting this man."

John sinks into the chair, rage draining into the fear it'd been masking. "This will kill him, Mycroft. You know it as well as I do. He will die, if you send him out there."

Mycroft looks truly sad as he meets John's eyes. "I know that."

"Then fix this, damn you! Do you even care that he'll die?"

Mycroft looks down. "I have long since acknowledged that particular weakness, John. However, I cannot allow it to cloud my judgement."

"What could possibly be more important than saving your little brother's life?"

"Saving this country." Mycroft looks at him calmly. It's absolutely infuriating.

"You can't possibly tell me you think _Sherlock _will make a military difference out there?"

"Not at all. But John, you know how accusations of nepotism have flown, in recent weeks. If I save Sherlock from enlistment, they will throw me out of office. I need to be here, John. I need to be able to stop this before it destroys us all."

John takes a deep breath, but he knows despite it that his mind is already made up.

"Then deploy me. Get me pulled off the disabled list. Keep me with him. You can do that much, can't you?"

"John…"

"God dammit, Mycroft! I don't want to go back, no! I know you think I'm an adrenaline addict and maybe that's true but I'm _happy_. Happier than I ever was out there. But… I can't let him die."

"You think you can keep him safe?"

"I think I can do a damn sight better at it than he does."

Mycroft sighs. "I will… attempt."

John nods sharply, stands, and pivots. Before he has left, though, Mycroft's voice stops him.

"John. I am… sorry."

John glances over his shoulder. "I've heard that from you before."

And he leaves.

.

John hands the letter to Sherlock and seats himself on the sofa, curling into himself and trying not to think about what all of this means. Sherlock, when he sees the envelope, goes very, very still.

"They've drafted me, then?" His voice is flat, dull, even more devoid of emotion than usual.

John nods as Sherlock slits the envelope open, reading it. He sets it on the arm of a chair, picks up his violin, places it in position, and stares blankly at the window without playing.

The silence in the flat is eerie.

.

John's letter comes two days later. The date and time for him to report are identical to those listed in Sherlock's letter. He'll maintain rank of Captain, given he trains with everyone else first.

.

Sherlock finds John's letter while John is at the grocery. John comes back to stony silence.

Sherlock is sulking on the sofa, glaring at the ceiling. The anger in the room is palpable.

"Don't do that," John says, approaching.

Sherlock doesn't even look at him.

"Nope, nope. Don't… Don't do that."

"Do what?" Apparently the ceiling is fascinating tonight.

"That. That _thing_ you do, where instead of talking about things like adults, you just _sulk_ until you get your way. I'm not changing my mind on this, Sherlock." Because there's no question that Sherlock knows exactly why John is suddenly off the disabled list.

Sherlock flips nimbly off the sofa and onto his feet. "You can't do this, John."

"I can and I have."

Two steps forward, and Sherlock is looming over John, purposefully intimidating. "I won't let you."

But the thing that makes John different from everyone else is that he won't be cowed by Sherlock. He doesn't back up at all, just tips his head back to meet Sherlock's eyes. "You don't have a say in the matter."

That's not really that, of course. Sherlock continues to sulk and rage, but John is not budging on this and he's actually legally right — Sherlock doesn't have a say.

.

It takes less than a day to confirm what John knew without seeing. Sherlock will not survive out there. He has managed to piss off every single superior officer and a large majority of his peers already. He's actually a fine shot — _it's all physics, John!_ — but he's such an incredible arse that it doesn't even matter, because not a single one of these soldiers would bother to save him from a speeding bullet. Many of them might even pull the trigger, if they knew they wouldn't get caught.

John, on the other hand, easily wins their loyalty, as he always has. They respect him, because they know he will hold higher rank than they will out there. And they like him, because John is _John_. He's just… generally amicable, and people respond to that as they always have.

It doesn't hurt that he tries to keep Sherlock in line.

That night, Sherlock crawls into John's tiny bed because this is a thing they do, some days — usually after especially bad cases when one of them has nearly died. Apparently today is one of those days. Sherlock wraps his elastic limbs around John and paces his breathing to the movements of John's chest.

John feels like he should protest because it's different here, different in a crowded barracks, but instead he just says, "Move before morning."

"Obviously," Sherlock murmurs, and then there is nothing but the huff of his breath against John's chest and the warmth of his leg thrown across John's.

.

John is… not really sure what they are. Sherlock is _Sherlock_, and that means nothing's ever quite normal. They've never _done anything,_ never even kissed, but Sherlock wraps his tentacle-limbs around John while he sleeps sometimes and John lets him and then they just don't talk about it. John's thought about bringing it up, but Sherlock never does and John sort of assumes that means he doesn't really want to talk about it, and so they don't.

Everyone else tends to assume they're properly together, with the kissing and the dating and the sex… and that used to bother John, until Irene Adler happened.

He can't forget what she said, when John had protested that he wasn't actually gay.

"_And I… am. Look at us both."_

She'd been referring to how wrapped up in Sherlock Holmes they'd both gotten. He's just… _Sherlock_, in a way that defies definition and captures attention. Irene had noticed, but she was much more aware of it than John had been. She knew that Sherlock was oddly intoxicating in a way that went beyond basic sexuality, because the affection wasn't necessarily a sexual one — but it wasn't quite a platonic one, either. It was something… undefinable, and somehow John had gotten all caught up in it before realising what was even going on. Not that he really _knows_ what's going on, even now.

John has learned, when it comes to Sherlock, that most days it's best if he just accepts things as they are.

.

They ship out, Sherlock in his plain recruit's uniform, John with shiny new Captain's stars, three of them. He meets the Major he's going to be second-in-command for in France. George Lovett is a brusque man, sharp and concise when he speaks, but he listens to what John has to say without dismissing him outright.

They have a sub-unit of 124 men, 4 Lieutenants and a few Second Lieutenants, but mostly enlisted men with only the most basic of training under their belt.

It is jarring, how different this is from Afghanistan. In Afghanistan, they were all volunteers, every single one of them perfectly willing. A World War isn't like that. There are men of all calibers. Men who give service their all, and men who don't want to get out of bed in the morning. John quickly finds he has little patience for the latter type.

The first time John uses his authority to chew out a recruit, Sherlock stares at him. John can practically see the gears whirring in his head, matching Captain John Watson up with amicable, friendly Dr John Watson, the Londoner. John knows that he is different out here, and he is so unabashedly. He has to be. The stakes are higher.

Major Lovett despises Sherlock. John figures out pretty quickly that the only reason the Major hasn't shipped Sherlock off to another unit is because of John, because somehow, Lovett knows that wherever Sherlock goes, John goes with him. So John makes himself as useful as possible, tactically, without making himself irreplaceable because this is war and the army can't afford to have an irreplaceable soldier.

And so they stay, Sherlock ruffling feathers and John trailing along behind him and smoothing them out, trying to make people understand that Sherlock isn't intentionally a complete arse — it just comes naturally to him.

And then they hit their first major skirmish.

.

Bullets are flying everywhere as John tries to keep track of a million things at once, trying to be Captain, Doctor, protector. He tries to keep Sherlock in visible range while using his kit to patch up anyone he decides can be saved (and he hates it most when he has to make the decision that they _can't_, that there's no sense in using his supplies, because it eats at him inside). He keeps soldiers where they're supposed to be, yelling to be heard over screams and gunfire and _GODDAMMIT SHERLOCK WOULD YOU JUST STAY IN ONE AREA, PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD._

Sherlock listens about as well as he usually does, which is to say, not at all. He's picking off enemy soldiers strategically, instantly pinpointing the ones that actually matter and taking them out with a single shot. He's coldly efficient and scary good and not at all paying attention to his own safety. It scares John to death but he can't think about that now, can't think about that when he's got a concerns list a mile long already and Sherlock's keeping him moving because… because dammit all if Sherlock isn't always going to be his first priority.

.

That night, Sherlock crawls into John's bed despite the sticky heat. And John, John lets him because there are gunshots echoing in his ears and dead men painted on the backs of his eyelids. He stares at the ceiling and holds Sherlock tightly and tries not to think about all the men he didn't save.

He wakes up alone and tries not to let it crush him.

.

Time passes, as it always does. In war, it passes non-linearly. There are days that take a lifetime and days that pass in the blink of an eye and time… Time just runs differently out here, because days and nights don't matter as much and action is sporadic and unpredictable.

It is a moment and a lifetime later when John realises that it's been six months already (finally).

Not much has changed. The men respect Sherlock more but loathe him more as well. John's had more than one person ask what the deal with him and Sherlock is… and he doesn't know how to answer that so he just sort of shrugs.

John is weary down to his bones but… unlike last time, he isn't bone-deep cold, too. Because Sherlock keeps that at bay — the cold that seeps in regardless of climate, and the continent isn't Afghanistan but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter where he is because it isn't the air that creeps under his skin. It's the war itself. It crawls in through his pores and slips through his veins, turning him to ice.

But Sherlock, Sherlock keeps the ice at bay. He wraps himself around John almost every night now and John feels just a little bit warmer. Just enough warmer.

.

The bullet tears through his sleeve and John swears, checking his arm, but it's just a graze. Still, he needs to move, so he picks up his kit and his gun and forces his feet to travel. This firefight has been going on too long, and he is too weary for this but he cannot stop because if he stops he is dead. He finds Sherlock in his peripheral vision, still picking off soldiers like a trained sniper. John drops to his knees by a wounded man.

He only looks away for an instant.

Just an instant.

He hears the dull thud of a body hitting the cold ground of the meadow and his head snaps up, searching for the lanky frame where he was last standing.

"No, no, no," John mumbles without even noticing. He grabs his kit again, leaving the man without a second thought, because he is already dead.

"Goddammit, _no_."

It's him, because of course it is, who else could it even be? He's there in the dirt, a bullet hole torn through his leg and _goddammit, of course it went straight through a fucking vein_.

His eyes are open, his chest still moving shallowly, for now. Veins bleed sluggishly, but they hold too much blood volume for John to patch him up and call it okay. There's already too much spilled on the ground and John knows this, rationally, but he can't stop himself from cracking open his kit and trying to stop the bleeding.

"John." His voice is a quiet rasp amidst the battlefield chaos, but John hears it immediately. His head snaps up.

"John, don't bother."

"No, no, Sherlock, you're going to be fine, okay? You're going to be fine. _You have to be fine._"

"John," he says simply and it's enough, because John deflates.

"Goddammit, Sherlock. You weren't supposed to do this to me. You weren't supposed to die, you idiot."

"'M sorry, John."

John laughs, bitterly, miserably. "Fuck, don't… don't apologise, Sherlock. Just… don't do that."

Sherlock looks like he wants to say something else, but then all of the tension drains out of his muscles. His head rolls back onto the dirt.

John's fingers scrabble at his neck as the world tilts, but there's nothing there. His fingertips feel numb.

A bullet whistles past his head, jerking John back into reality. Choking back a sob, he picks up his kit, finds his gun, and keeps moving.

Every step away from the body of his… best friend, feels like a hundred miles.

.

John returns to the battlefield when it's all over, when everyone else has collapsed into bed. He can't sleep; his brain is stained with images that won't go away and the cot feels too small, too cold.

He searches in the dark, using the light of a small flashlight, trying not to count the number of comrades he's seen lying in the dirt tonight, searching desperately for a shock of dark curls.

Hours later, when John's body is about to override his mind and shut his system down out of pure desperation, John finds him.

He can't help himself. He falls to his knees, takes Sherlock's stiff hand in his. He allows the tears to fall that he was forced to hold back earlier.

"You weren't supposed to die, you idiot. I was supposed to be able to protect you."

.

They ship Sherlock out in a black box.

John doesn't cry, not this time. He's not doing that again.

Major Lovett claps him on the shoulder, says softly, "I'm sorry." They're the most honest words John has ever heard from him, but they make no difference.

.

Three years. It takes three years for the war to end, and in the end there really isn't a winner. They sign the treaties because everyone's so sick of fighting when they aren't even sure what they're fighting for anymore.

John goes home. Only, he's not really sure where home is anymore because Baker Street feels wrong without Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson keeps looking at him with mournful eyes.

So he leaves. Leaves Baker Street, leaves London, moves in the middle of nowhere and it lasts all of three months before John gets restless, the way he did last time. He doesn't readjust to civilian life well, and this time he doesn't have Sherlock Holmes to show him the battlefield of London.

He's restless and there's nothing tying him here so he packs his few things in a backpack and heads off.

His bank account never bottoms out and he knows that's Mycroft's way of saying he's sorry and it doesn't change a thing, but John doesn't protest. He's too busy running, trying to forget black curls and dancing green eyes, trying to forget the man that taught him what it was to be alive again.

He's cold. He's too old to keep running, but there is war deep in his bones and memories haunting his mind and he's not sure what else to do.


End file.
